The Countess' Captive (The Fairytale Keeper Book 2)

by Andrea Cefalo

  “She won’t throw her. Not with me holding the reins.”

  Hilde flashes him a doubtful look. “She had better not.”

  The wispy white hairs of Storyteller’s tail flick, and she stomps a perturbed hoof. The horse’s ink–black eyes soften as I slide my fingers along her felt nose. Her light, downy lashes close and open.

  “Are you ready, Fraulein?” Gundred asks, offering me a steadying hand as I crest the mounting block and clumsily get into the saddle.

  “Have you chosen a name for her, Fraulein?” He takes the reins and clicks his teeth. The horse surges forward.

  I rise and fall with her heavy strides. “Storyteller,” I reply.

  “A pretty name for a pretty girl, Fraulein,” he says placatingly.

  “Is it true what they say of Burgundians?” I ask.

  “I have heard a great many things said of Burgundians, so that depends, Fraulein.”

  “That you are terrible, unrelenting flirts.”

  “Yes, that is true…of most Burgundians.” He shoots me an unabashed, half–smile. “But I am an excellent flirt, so it is not true of me, Fraulein.”

  I shake my head at him and chortle.

  “I want my pfennig back, Hilde,” Gundred calls, holding up two fingers. “I made her laugh and smile. You owe me two for this.”

  “That was not the wager, and you know it, Gundred,” she says. “Do not let his flirtations fool you, Fraulein. You are practically a lady of the house now. Soon every servant will be singing of your virtues like a bunch of besotted troubadours.”

  “Even you, Hilde?” I jest.

  “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! No! The men, dear, the men.”

  I cannot see Father accepting this custom well. I think back to his rage when he found me in Ivo’s arms. How will he respond to forward gestures and suggestive words directed toward his only daughter?

  “Do you do this to gain favor?” I ask Gundred. It is an honest, yet ill–phrased question, and Hilde pouts at my lack of tact.

  “It can’t hurt,” Gundred laughs.

  “So you are married then, Gundred,” I say.

  “I was betrothed once. The fever took her.”

  The fever. The very mention of it cinches my waist, robs me of breath. “I am truly sorry, Gundred.”

  “Many have lost to the fever,” he replies as if this makes his pain more bearable.

  “Yes,” I agree with a hard swallow. “I do not know any who have not.”

  Gundred, clutching the reins, leads me in slow circles through the inner bailey. I am not some child, barely out of her infant’s gown, giggling in delight at riding her first pony. I think I could manage the reins quite well on my own. I keep my gaze on my surroundings, too embarrassed to meet the stares of those who watch me.

  To the right, a great many buildings dot the flat landscape: a large stable, a barn, a forge, an oven, a few small silos, and a few others with purposes of which I am not sure. Serfs, donning rough–spun and sun–faded tunics, toil on hands and knees in the dark russet garden plots. The bleating of goats, eager for milking, sounds against the distant clangor of a hammer on steel. As we get further into the bailey, I notice shops built into the fortress wall beyond the gardens and workhouses. Maids and men scurry about, but none are too busy to catch a peek at me, the girl who never smiles.

  I miss being busy, I think with a sigh. I am sure that any one of these servants would happily take my place, but this is a dull life. Whoever thought a person could grow weary from boredom?

  “I think she’s ready for the reins,” Gundred says, passing me the leather straps.

  “She most certainly is not!” Hilde’s eyes are severe as she snaps the reins from my hands and shoves them back at Gundred. He shoots me an apologetic look, and I ride until Hilde says I must ready for the afternoon’s sewing, which I dread, but it is either ride and survive Galadriel’s presence or feign illness and remain in these rooms. I am not yet sure which is worse.

  The tub waits for me, steaming and scented. I soak in the scalding water, my muscles melting and skin turning pink. I scrub at the arches of my feet when a knock startles me. I gasp and sink into the tub. Did I remember to lock the door?

  “Hilde?” I call.

  “No, Fraulein. It is Linus.”

  “Don’t come in!” The water splash in waves as I wrap my arms around my chest.

  “Of course, Fraulein,” he stutters. “Your uncle sends me. A letter has come for you.”

  I snap up and grab the drying sheets from the edge of the tub.

  “Fraulein?” he calls with a crack in his voice. “Are you all right?”

  “I am fine. Wait right there.”

  “I can slide the letter under the door if it pleases you, Fraulein.”

  “Oh, good,” I stammer. “Do that. Please. Thank you.”

  I wrap myself in the drying sheet. The parchment slips across the floor. Running on tiptoe, I leave small puddles with each stride. I halt, a foot before the parchment. A single drip could cause the ink to run. Water streams from my sodden hair. I grab another drying sheet, wrapping it around my locks. I dry my hands once more, and pounce on the letter before rushing to the bed and crawling beneath the covers.

  Hilde rushes in. “What is it? What is the matter? A maid said she heard splashing and saw Linus at the door. Is he pestering you, dear—” She pauses looking from my face to the letter and then back to my face again. She crosses the room in a matter of paces and plops next to me on the bed. “Well, go on. Open it up!”

  “What if it bears bad news?”

  “Oh, don’t think such things. You’ve waited so long for this letter, and now it is here. You must read it.” She pats me on the leg and rises before I can ask for the privacy I desire. “I’ll let you finish your bath, dear. Do not be too long now,” she says, flashing a warm smile. The door to my presence chamber claps closed behind her.

  I take a deep breath and break the seal.

  Dear Addie,

  I imagine that you are chewing a hole through your lip as you read this. Am I right? I should like to tell you the other things I imagine when I think of you, but a monk writes this letter, not me.

  As for my tutor, he never came. I do not know what has become of him. Brother John teaches me to read on Saturdays. He read me your letter, and he writes this letter now.

  You can stop chewing your lip. There is nothing to worry for. The fever subsides. Rumors spread about what happened to the cathedral. Some say Father Soren’s ghost burned the church. Others say the loosened heretic did it. None of that matters though, for the archbishop blames the people. He says it was God’s punishment for our sinful ways. So that is that. Hopefully his words mark the end of the blackmail, torture, and hasty hangings that have plagued Cologne since his arrival; and he leaves for Rome. I hope he stays there.

  Before you left, I placed some parchments in your cloak. Do you know what has become of them?

  My family is well. We prepare the fields during the day, and I take to my apprenticeship at night. The knights ready themselves for spring tourneys, so Michael and I trade our steel for their silver. This year the lesser knights seem to all want mail so that is mostly what I make. I may have enough of it for everything we need by next winter. Then, I will come for you, and we will have a home of our own.

  The past fortnight has felt like a year without you. This Sunday last, I was so desperate for fun that I took Levi out to climb trees. He did not make it up three limbs before slipping. He screamed, and I looked down to find him sprawled on the ground with his tunic over his head and a long red scratch going up his torso. His tunic had caught on a tree branch and another scraped him from navel to throat. I doubt that I have ever laughed so hard. Mother did not see the humor in it.

  So what of you? Are you well? What is it like to live in a castle? Do you wear furs and and drink honeyed wine? Do you ride horses and eat game? Are troubadours singing songs of your beauty and grace? I wish I was there to see it all.

&nbs
p; All My Love,

  Ivo

  I sigh and place the letter to my lips and breath in, hoping that his earthy scent might still be on it, but it smells of leather and horse.

  I read it over and over. He is safe. An imagined corset that has bound my waist since the day we left loosens, and I can breathe deeply again. Still, it could be nine months before I see him. My father shall be a father again before then. Galadriel may be his wife, my stepmother. I could be sent to some far off court and forced into a betrothal to someone else. My shoulders fall with a heavy sigh, but Ivo is safe. He’s safe.

  I take to my desk and dip my pen in the ink well, sliding a piece of parchment toward me.

  Dearest Ivo,

  It relieves me to know that the fever subsides, and the archbishop leaves. Cologne manages itself better without him.

  As for your parchments, I read them. Most of them were unimportant, so I burned them to keep my room warm. However, one was quite intriguing and scandalous. I saw to it that this letter found itself into capable hands.

  It does not surprise me that the archbishop heads to Rome. It is where he spends most of his time. His good friend, the pope, shall surely grant him a new cathedral. The construction will bring builders, and that means more people to support the market with their coin.

  During my travels to Bitsch, we passed through a city called Oppenheim. It is a Free Imperial City. It used to be a See of the Church like Cologne. Oppenheim has no archbishop or duke or count. Its lord has little power. He pays his people well for their fealty in the case that he needs them for battle. I never knew such things existed. I wonder if Cologne might one day be a Free Imperial City, too. I wonder how one makes such a thing happen.

  It pains me to think of you working so hard. If the reading lessons consume too much time, do not bother. When we are together again, I shall teach you to read. I miss you more than you can know. Nine months cannot come quickly enough for me.

  To answer your questions, I am well. Living in a castle is strange. The luxuries of fine fabrics and private baths and rich foods is met with expectations to which I am unaccustomed. No troubadours sing of my beauty. And grace? It shocks me that I have not yet tripped over my skirts and fallen on my face.

  With love,

  Adelaide

  There is so much I think to write him.

  Father allowed Galadriel to take our name, our trade. I am no longer Adelaide Schumacher but Adelaide von Cologne. We now pose as wealthy merchants and cannot cobble. Father proposes marriage, his wedding is mere days away, and he’s put a bastard in Galadriel’s belly.

  It is all too horrible to write, and I worry that if I do, tears shall drip on the parchment, leaving ugly splotches in my neatly written letter.

  Some details I avoid to keep Ivo from worry, others I avoid to keep him from danger. The parchments Ivo mentioned went far beyond scandal. Within them, the archbishop commits treason. He wrote Count William of Holland and offered him the king’s crown, urging William of Holland to sack Aachen and crown himself.

  Ivo found those letters the night he burned the cathedral and tucked them in my cloak. Most were useless, but that one was not. I gave the archbishop’s treasonous letter to Wilthelm Aducht, one of the most powerful men in Cologne. I don’t know what Wilthelm has done with the letter, if he has done anything with it at all. He could use it to blackmail the archbishop. Or he could see that the letter reaches King Conrad, gaining favor, riches, and titles for himself.

  I hope for the latter because that might mean a quick and well–deserved demise for Konrad von Hochstaden. Perhaps, Wilthelm might have some say in the appointing of Cologne’s next archbishop, a weak puppet who will keep to Rome and allow the people of Cologne to rule themselves. Perhaps Wilthelm shall help see Cologne grow from a Church See beneath the thumb of an archbishop to a Free Imperial City like Oppenheim. If he does, then, in a way, Ivo and I helped Cologne to a freedom it has never known.

  Imagine that? A cobbler and an armorer seeing Cologne to a Free Imperial City.

  “Adelaide, are you all right?” Hilde calls. I fold my letter and tuck it away.

  “Yes,” I shout and slip back into the cold tub, rushing through my bath and drying with haste. Hilde enters and readies my damp hair, covering it with a heavy veil and coif.

  “I do not know who glows more radiantly today, you or the countess,” she says.

  I bristle at this and hide my happiness behind an ambivalent mask. Surely Galadriel knows I’ve received a letter. If I am sullen, she may think I no longer care for Ivo and find him an unsuitable pawn.

  I absent–mindedly stir my stew, lentils and roots parting for the spoon. Quiet conversation buzzes over the song of utensils scraping up the last slurps of broth. A sweet, buttery aroma rises as the buxom servant girl brings the next course. My bowl is still full, and the kitchen maid takes the uneaten dish with a furrow in her brow.

  “Are you unwell?” Galadriel coolly prods.

  “Well or not, it is ill–manners not to at least try the dishes set before her.” Johanna straightens as the servant lays the fourth course before her. “Really Countess, you are too easy on the girl.”

  “I am worried for my father, milady,” I explain, looking to the empty chair at the head of the table. “Shouldn’t he be here?”

  We dine in Father’s presence chamber. The first, second, and third courses have come, but Father has not shown.

  “He has taken to the forest with Tristan—on that horse he foolishly let you name,” Galadriel says.

  The kitchen maid rests the next course before me. Pastries float in a thick almond cream. My stomach makes a hollow growl as I pierce the golden dough with my spoon. Steaming dates and almonds pour from the casing.

  “Yes, what exactly was it you named his hunter?” Johanna asks with frigid amusement.

  I scoop a heaping spoonful of the pastry into my mouth and chew. I chew and chew and chew before condescending to answer her. “Rumpelstiltskin,” I finally say.

  “And what is a Rumpelstiltskin?” she asks.

  “He’s an imp who steals babies,” I quickly answer before turning to Galadriel. “May I join Father and Tristan?”

  Galadriel rubs a bit of wayward cream between her thumb and finger. “No, it is more important that you see how a lady runs her home,” she replies before looking to Marianna. “I have eaten enough. Let us retire to our sewing. I think I should like to try weaving again.”

  At this, we rise and follow Galadriel into her presence chamber. Marianna helps Galadriel try her hand at weaving, but Galadriel grows weary and retires to her chair. I sit at Galadriel’s feet, as Johanna reads from the Bible. I focus on stitching and avoid thoughts of Ivo for fear someone may catch me smiling.

  “I hear you received a letter today, Adelaide,” Galadriel prods.

  “Yes, milady. I did.”

  “A letter already?” Marianna remarks with excitement. “Have you a suitor back home?”

  “I thought so, but Cologne is no longer my home,” I lie, nearly choking on the words. “We cannot marry for a year, and so many things can change in a month. Who knows what shall happen by next spring?”

  “This is true, Adelaide,” Marianna concedes. “But good changes can come, too. A month ago I thought our sadnesses would never end. And now we have reason to celebrate again. The difference a month can make, oui?”

  I glance at Galadriel. “I certainly could not have foreseen it.” The words taste like ashes.

  Marianna puts down her sewing and turns her attention to me. “Tell us about this suitor of yours. He is handsome, non? And rich?”

  I should like to tell her that he is poor in coin but rich in every way that matters to me, but I know that is unwise. Still, every lie I tell of Ivo shall have to be remembered. It is best to say nothing at all. I look to Galadriel, certain she shall change the subject. But she does not. She simply stares forward, blissful and unseeing.

  Johanna coughs loudly. “Countess, my voice tires. Can som
eone else do the reading?”

  “Yes, Adelaide. Would you?” Galadriel asks.

  “Yes, milady,” I reply, glad to escape this inquisition.

  I take Johanna’s place. The Bible smells of must and incense like the oldest churches in Cologne. My fingers slide across the rim of the worn leather binding as my eyes peruse the Latin. Half of the phrases are unfamiliar to me. I swallow hard, but a realization eases my anxiety. Who would expect a merchant’s daughter to be fluent in Latin? Besides, all that matters is that I can pronounce the words. No one shall ask for a translation.

  “Her Latin needs practice,” Johanna notes before I finish reading a full page.

  Marianna’s disappointed gaze darts to Johanna. “And so does my flute,” she says.

  “I think I would rather listen to Adelaide butcher The Holy Book than you assaulting our ears with that flute,” Johanna drolls.

  Marianna shrugs away the insult and summons the flute player who gives her a lesson she badly needs as we sew. We break before supper, and I head for my rooms with hasty steps so I can read Ivo’s letter once more before supper.

  I sink into the chair before my desk and slip my fingers between the parchments where Ivo’s letter pokes out from the rest. I shouldn’t read it, I think. If I loved him, I would never write him again. Galadriel would think I no longer loved him, and he would be safer.

  But never again would I feel the weave of his fingers between mine or smell the scent of metal and wind and smoke in his hair. I would only hear his laughter or see his smile in memories. And even those would fade with time. The thought is a searing lance to the stomach. How would I feel if Ivo did the same to me? If he robbed me of that choice?

  Isn’t that a convenient and selfish logic, I think, chastising myself. Springing up from the chair, I race to the hearth and push Ivo’s letter toward the flames. The corners blacken and curl, smoldering as the hot copper tongues lick at the edges. I toss the letter to the ground and stomp out the glowing embers.

  I snatch up the letter and cradle it to my chest. Part of me wants to cry. Most of me wants to shove my pen through Galadriel’s throat. Why must I lose everything, everyone I love because of her ?